Arms
by AndAllThatMishigas
Summary: Preseries fic, inspired by Arms by Christina Perri.


**Arms**

Jean awoke with a start. Her heart was racing as she sat straight up in bed, staring into the darkness. She was unsure, at first, what had woken her. Then she heard it. A sharp shout, almost a yelp, and a pained moan.

Curious, Jean got out of bed and put on her dressing gown to investigate. The sounds grew louder as she made her way downstairs.

She was surprised to find a light on in the parlor. Dr. Blake was sitting by a lamp, staring blankly at the page of a book, his eyes unmoving. He looked up as she approached.

"Ah, I see you've been awoken by the noise. I'm sorry."

At first, she thought the sounds had come from him. But then she heard it again, coming from the guest room where the doctor's son, Lucien, had been staying for the last few days. Jean looked towards the closed door and frowned. "Is he alright?"

Thomas Blake gave a sad smile. "Yes and no. He'll be just fine in the morning, I'm sure. Though I had thought perhaps he'd gotten over this by now."

Her eyes narrowed, and she sat on the sofa beside Dr. Blake's chair, placing her elbow on her knee and her hand on her chin as she leaned forward in interest. "What's the matter with him?"

"I don't know if I ever told you this, Jean, but Lucien was a soldier for most of his life."

"Yes, you showed me his medals once a while back. Major, wasn't he?" She smiled, recalling the doctor's pride at his son's achievements.

Thomas nodded. "Yes. He was captured in the war when Singapore fell. To this day I don't know all that happened to him. He won't ever speak of it, especially to me. But when he returned home, I saw the same symptoms in him I had treated many years before when the young men returned home from the Great War. Shell shock. Battle fatigue."

Jean's eyes widened. Those were terms she'd heard of. "I've never known anyone who had it." Lucien shouted out again. "It sounds awful," Jean commented.

"It is. Having not experienced it myself, I can't imagine what Lucien and those other boys go through. It manifests in a number of ways. I've noticed some of it in Lucien. But the nights are the worst. He doesn't always have the fitful nightmares like this, but I'd imagine he rarely sleeps peacefully through the night."

"Isn't there anything you can do? A sedative or something?"

"There is no cure, and I don't think the treatment of symptoms the way he does is very effective. He'll try to hide it, and I don't think he's uncontrolled or belligerent, but Lucien does like his scotch. I used to enjoy a glass here and there, of course, or a nice sherry with you on occasion, but I have noticed the level falling rapidly in that bottle since Lucien arrived." Thomas nodded across the room to the drink cart. "And you know that with my kidneys failing, I can't imbibe, and you aren't a whiskey drinker, to my knowledge."

She shook her head and made a mental note to keep a close eye on the level of the bottle from now on. It wouldn't do to have a drunk in the house, particularly one who was supposed to be looking after the doctor's patients.

Lucien shouted out again, this time a bit louder, more pained. Every sound seemed to echo inside Jean's chest, constricting all the feeling in her. Perhaps it reminded her of when her boys were little and would have nightmares that woke her up in the middle of the night. Or perhaps it was the idea that Lucien Blake, who had seemed so aloof and stubborn and unaffected inside his strong, virile form, could be reduced to this weakened state. With Dr. Blake dying a little more every day, Lucien was supposed to come and save everything. But it seemed as though he was just as broken as the rest of them.

"And nothing helps it?" Jean asked the doctor, not believing that there really was nothing to be done.

"Nothing you or I can do. He'll tire himself out and eventually settle down. For the younger men all those years ago, I found some success in telling their families to hold their arms down until they settled."

"Hold their arms down?"

"Yes, in a sort of constricting hug. It's a similar theory to swaddling a baby. It encourages a feeling of security and calm."

"How interesting," Jean said. The doctor was right, that wasn't something either of them could do for Lucien. "If you're able, I think we should get you to bed. It is very late, and it can't be good for you to sit here and listen to this all night. Come along, I'll help you," she offered, standing up to take Dr. Blake's arm and assist him in returning to his own room.

As Jean tucked him into bed, Thomas put his hand on her arm, pausing her movements. "I know my time is coming closer every day, and I won't be able to look after my son anymore. I hope you'll keep a watchful eye. I don't want to leave him all alone."

Now it was Jean's turn to smile sadly. "I don't know if he intends to stay."

"I'll speak to him."

"I don't know if he intends to keep me on. He might not need a housekeeper."

"I'll speak to him," Thomas repeated. "And even if he thinks he doesn't need a housekeeper, I think he'll find he needs you."

Jean wasn't sure what to say to that. She'd only known Lucien Blake for two days and had yet to develop a very high opinion of him. But more to the point, it was very clear that he barely tolerated her. The doctor seemed so very certain. And, after all, he was dying, as much as Jean wished he wouldn't. So she simply nodded and patted his hand affectionately before leaving to go back to her own room.

The next night, she was once again woken up by Lucien's shouts in the night. She went downstairs and found the entire house dark. Either Dr. Blake hadn't been awoken or he had chosen to try to ignore it tonight. But Jean couldn't do that. She couldn't bear to hear those sounds and do nothing about it.

It must have been the grogginess of her half-asleep mind that allowed her to even contemplate such a thing, but Jean went right into Lucien's room. She closed the door quietly behind her and squinted in the dark. Lucien was thrashing around on the bed, shouting and moaning in a way that broke her heart. She came to sit beside him and put her arms around him, pinning his own arms down at his sides as she held him upright where she sat. He continued to thrash, but upon finding the resistance of her embrace, he quickly calmed down. His panting slowed, and his breathing became more regular. He settled back to a peaceful sleep after a few minutes without ever waking up. Jean let out the breath she hadn't noticed she'd been holding and gently let him go. She stood up and watched him for a moment to be sure he was alright, and then she swiftly left the room as though she'd never entered it at all.

Over the next week, Jean woke up and went to Lucien three more times. Each time was just like the first. He never woke up and never knew she was there. In less than ten minutes from waking up, Jean was back in her own bed, satisfied that he could sleep peacefully.

One night, however, things did not go as routinely. Jean did just as she always did, taking him in her arms and holding him tightly until he settled down. She whispered soothingly in his ear, telling him everything was alright, assuring him that she was there, that he wasn't alone, that he was safe.

And Lucien woke up.

"Jean?" He was surely still asleep. This was some sort of bizarre dream, brought on by stress and the attraction to the housekeeper that he kept locked down in his subconscious.

She froze. He'd never spoken to her before. He'd never known she was there. That was how she'd allowed herself to continue. No one was ever supposed to know. "Shh, go to sleep," she whispered back.

Assuming he was still asleep, Lucien thought nothing else of it and settled back to bed, safe in the comfort of her embrace.

The next morning, when she served him breakfast, Lucien commented, "I had the strangest dream last night."

"Oh?" Jean replied, feigning curiosity to mask the horror that he'd say something that would reveal her secret night activities.

"Yes. You were in my bedroom."

"I beg your pardon!"

He just laughed. "No, nothing happened. I don't think. You were just there."

"Well I'd appreciate if you'd refrain from having dreams about me in your bedroom," she scolded, still terrified he'd figure out that her presence was real. How could she possibly explain it in a way that would make any sort of rational, proper sense?

"If I could control my dreams, I assure you that I would." His tone had taken on a dark bitterness, which Jean understood all too well now.

She nodded curtly and forced the subject to be dropped. But she knew she needed to be more careful. Perhaps she'd have to stop going to his room altogether.

But that night, she was awoken once more by his nightmares. This one was more violent than any thus far. He was rolling all around the bed, and his arms and legs had thrown the bedsheets onto the floor. Jean was hard pressed to find a way to pin him down. He was actually able to throw her off him, his flailing arm actually hitting her hard in the face. She let out a surprised cry.

The sound made Lucien bolt upright, wide awake. His eyes adjusted to the darkness and he saw Jean sitting on the edge of the bed, clutching her cheek. "Jean? Jean, are you alright?"

"I'm fine," she insisted, but her voice cracked, betraying her anguish. Really, she was more surprised than anything else. But he had hit her quite hard.

"What are you doing in here?" he asked, hoping that he wouldn't need to address her obvious emotion.

Jean knew she'd have to confess to her actions. "Your nightmares. Whenever I wake up to your shouts, I come and help you fall back asleep."

"You do?"

"Yes, for over a week now. Your dream of me last night wasn't a dream. I was here. Like I am now."

Lucien knew now that he needed more explanation. He reached over and turned on the bedside lamp. "Why are you holding your face like that? What's wrong? Let me see," he instructed.

Reluctantly, she took her hands away from her face. Lucien saw a red, swollen welt growing on her pale cheek. Jean stared down at her lap, unable to meet his eye. She didn't know if she'd ever felt more uncomfortable in all her life.

"Jean, did I hit you?" he asked, mortified at the very idea that he could have been the cause of any harm to her, or to any woman.

"It wasn't your fault. You were writhing around more tonight than before. I lost my grip on you," she explained.

Lucien felt his heart plummet into his stomach. He thought he was going to be sick. "Jean, you can't come back here anymore. I obviously can't control my actions, and I won't allow you to get hurt."

"It's not that bad," she insisted.

"It's bad enough. I…I can't believe that I did this to you. I'm so sorry, Jean," he apologized profusely.

She stood from the bed, still unable to look at him. "Go back to sleep," she said simply, closing the door to his bedroom as she hurried out.

"Jean, what happened to your cheek?" Dr. Blake asked as she brought him breakfast in his room the next morning. He'd deteriorated to the point that he couldn't get out of bed anymore.

"I bumped into the doorjamb last night when I went to get a glass of water," she lied. She'd tried her best to cover the bruise with makeup, but it hadn't been very effective. She said nothing more about it.

For days, Lucien felt ill whenever he looked at Jean. The bruise was fading, but he knew the true cause and had never felt more shame in all his life. This…this woman, this housekeeper had cared for his father for years, fixing his meals and cleaning his house and managing his surgery. She was bright and determined and capable of anything, it seemed. She put up with very little outside the realms of propriety, if her nagging about his appearance and behavior were any indication. Strong-willed and self-assured. And beautiful, which served only to make him slightly more nervous in her usually harsh presence. But somehow, in the dark cover of night, she'd shed all that and come to care for him out of the sheer compassion of her heart. How she knew how to calm him in his nightmares, he didn't know. Whatever it was had been wildly effective, and he hadn't even known. But this is what he'd done in return for her kindness. He hadn't meant to, of course, but the danger he posed to her was all too real, it seemed. She had only wanted to help him, and he'd quite literally slapped her in the face for it.

In the last days of Thomas Blake's life, the district nurse, Mattie O'Brien, had moved into the guest room downstairs, and Lucien had taken the spare bedroom upstairs, down the hall from Jean. It was practical, as Mattie needed to be near Dr. Blake, and it would only be for a week at the most. But Jean hadn't really liked the idea of having that man sleeping twenty feet away from her. It wasn't appropriate. But she kept her mouth shut, knowing that there were more important things to worry about. If the nurse had to move in, it was a certain sign that Dr. Blake was very near the end. Jean had been in denial till then. She hadn't wanted to believe that she would actually have to say goodbye.

On his first night upstairs, Lucien had another of his nightmares. Jean tried as hard as she could to refrain from going to him. But as she lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, the noises he made just gutted her. Now that he was so much closer, she could hear every single sound so much more clearly.

Reluctantly, she got out of bed and went down the hall to him. It was almost rote, now, the way she would put her arms around him and hold him tight.

"Jean, you shouldn't be here. Please."

The sound of his voice took her by surprise. "You were having another nightmare," she murmured.

"I'm sure I was. But I can't control myself, and I don't want you to get hurt."

"It's not so bad. The bruise is almost gone now, and it doesn't hurt at all," she assured him.

"That's not what I mean. Next time it could be much worse. I can't hurt you if you don't keep trying to save me."

"I'm not trying to save you. I'm trying to make sure you sleep. It can't be restful to have those nightmares."

"It isn't. But it's my own problem and none of your concern."

Jean knew he wasn't trying to offend her, but that didn't stop her from being angry at his words. She stood up and left, practically slamming the door behind her. In that moment, she didn't care if the whole rest of the house woke up. How dare he try to tell her what was or wasn't her concern! As long as she was employed as housekeeper, she would do just that. She would keep the house, and that meant taking care of every nook and cranny and every person inside it. And that included Lucien Blake for as long as he was there with her.

Lucien decided to take matters into his own hands after that. He bought a bottle of scotch and put it in his bedroom, hoping no one would notice the glass missing from the bar cart. Every night, he would drink as much as he could bear before bed. He knew from experience that if he could pass out, he was less likely to have the nightmares. And he was right. It worked. He woke up with a splitting headache, but it was worth it to be able to fall asleep without distress and without needed Jean. She was still angry at him, for some reason, and Lucien was convinced that she deliberately made louder noise than was really necessary making breakfast, just because it would torture him in his hungover state.

The one night he couldn't bear to drink himself to sleep, however, was when his father died. It wasn't unexpected, of course, so he'd had time to prepare. But drinking to a stupor felt disrespectful somehow. Lucien knew he had to take his chances that night.

Sure enough, he'd had a terrible nightmare. Jean heard his shouts for the first time in a few days. She was quicker to respond, since she wasn't actually asleep. The grief of Dr. Blake's passing had rendered her numb and useless all day, since the moment she'd said goodbye before the ambo came to take the body to the funeral home. But she couldn't ignore Lucien's nightmares, no matter how hard she tried. Jean wiped the tears from her eyes and tiptoed down the hall to him.

"I'm here, Lucien," she whispered. He wasn't thrashing too much tonight. It was relatively easy to take him in her arms. And then, something new and unexpected occurred.

Lucien had heard Jean's voice. It had become like a beacon for him, a light leading him away from the darkness that had utterly consumed him. And, despite his better judgment to the contrary, he decided to allow her to comfort him. He relaxed his body in her embrace so she would loosen her grip just enough to allow his arms to move. And as she held him, he wrapped his arms around her waist and held her in return.

"Lucien?" If he put his arms around her, he must be awake.

"You shouldn't be here. I told you not to do this anymore," he murmured. "But I'm glad you didn't listen. I'm glad you came."

Jean was frozen for a moment, unsure of what to do when she was in _his_ embrace, instead of the other way around. "I couldn't sleep anyway," she admitted quietly.

"I'm sorry for your loss."

"He's your father."

"Yes, but I know what you meant to each other," he replied.

And that was when Jean began to cry once more. She buried her face in his shoulder, her arms still holding him close. He held her in his arms, gently rubbing her back through her dressing gown. Jean let his impossibly strong arms comfort her, even though it was her job to care for him. Just this once, hidden in darkness and excused by grief, Jean relaxed in his arms, allowing herself to feel at home with him.


End file.
